Freedom in Madness

My husband John is a physician. He doesn’t believe I am really sick. He says I’m only experiencing a “temporary nervous depression”—a slight hysterical tendency. Because he is a doctor, and a man, his word carries more weight than mine. So, we’ve rented a large, secluded house for the summer, where I can rest and recover. John says I must avoid all stimulation—no writing, no visitors, no thinking too hard. I disagree, but I have no voice.

He has placed me in the old nursery upstairs. The room is strange: the windows are barred, the bed is nailed to the floor, and the yellow wallpaper is peeling off in places. That wallpaper… it disgusts me. Its color is a sickly, dirty yellow, like old fungus. The pattern twists and turns in the most bizarre ways, like broken necks and strangled shapes. The more I look at it, the more it unsettles me.

I secretly write in this journal when John is away. He would be upset if he knew. I try to obey his rules, but my mind keeps racing. I feel like I’m trapped. Sometimes I cry for no reason, sometimes I stare at the wall for hours.

(The Woman in the Wallpaper)

The wallpaper begins to haunt me. At night, under the moonlight, the pattern seems to move. I think I see a figure behind the main design—a woman, creeping and crawling. She seems trapped behind bars, shaking them, trying to get out. During the day, the figure disappears into the pattern. But at night, she becomes clearer.

I try to tell John that I’m not improving. But he laughs gently, kisses my forehead, and tells me not to dwell on such fancies. He says I must rest more. Rest, rest, rest. I’ve never rested so much in my life. And yet, I feel worse.

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I begin watching the wallpaper for hours. I see the woman more clearly now. I think she is trying to get out—just like me. Sometimes I imagine that she escapes and creeps around outside, in the garden, on her hands and knees. Sometimes I see her in the mirror, or in my reflection on the window. Sometimes… I feel like I am her.

I start peeling the wallpaper. At first just a corner. Then a strip. I want to free the woman inside. No—I need to. The smell of the paper fills the room, strong and musty. It sticks to my clothes, my hair. The color stains my fingers.

John begins to worry that I’m overexerting myself. He urges me to rest even more. But I can’t stop thinking about the wallpaper. I stay awake all night, watching, following the twists and turns of the pattern, tracing them with my fingers. My thoughts spin wildly. I laugh at things I shouldn’t. I feel dizzy, excited.

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The Fourth of July comes and goes. We don’t celebrate. John says the heat is bad for my nerves. His sister, Jennie, helps around the house. She’s kind, but she watches me too closely. I start hiding the torn wallpaper. I don’t want anyone to interfere.

One night, I lock the door and throw the key out the window. I spend the entire night tearing the wallpaper off the walls, strip by strip. I follow the figure. I chase her. I free her.

When John finally forces the door open, he finds me crawling around the room, following the path of the wallpaper. I tell him I’ve gotten out at last—in spite of him, and in spite of “Jane.” He faints right there on the threshold. I keep crawling over him, again and again.

I am free.

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🧠 Key Themes

• Oppression of Women: The narrator’s descent into madness mirrors the way 19th-century women were silenced, especially by “scientific” male authority.

• Mental Health: The “rest cure” was a real treatment that likely worsened postpartum depression, isolating women rather than healing them.

• Symbolism: The yellow wallpaper represents both the mental entrapment and the larger societal cage women were kept in. The woman behind the wallpaper symbolizes the narrator’s subconscious struggle for freedom.